


Dawn Encounters

by presidentwarden



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Banter, Bathing, Courtship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3891193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/presidentwarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Loghain wakes up early for the express purpose of avoiding the rest of the party, and Zevran has the foresight to expect this. When there is only one pond at camp to bathe, sharing becomes a reluctant necessity.</p>
<p>Lots of banter, mild attempted courtship, Zevran being his usual self while Loghain tries to resist. Post-Landsmeet. </p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Zevran sits up a little, just enough to catch Loghain in the crosshairs of an enigmatic smile. “Getting to know new people is always a pleasure, especially considering our prior connection.”</p>
<p>Loghain grumbles, as usual. “Yes, I suppose it isn’t every day a deposed king is seduced by the failed assassin he hired.”</p>
<p>“You think so?” Zev lazily reaches out for him. “In Antiva, it’s astonishingly common.”</p>
<p>“I am sure. However, we are in Ferelden, not Antiva.”</p>
<p>Zev stifles a laugh. “I see those maps have been helpful.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawn Encounters

For a man who values his privacy so highly, Loghain has found himself surrendering it much too often.

Not by choice, of course; the cramped style of life at the party camp, so similar and yet so different from the days leading up to Ostagar, is hardly foreign to him. But instead of an army of steadfast Fereldans, whose loyalty would be indisputable and their motives beyond reproach, he has now been thrown into a motley crew, seemingly plucked from all over Thedas, who have not taken kindly to his arrival.

He supposes he cannot blame them. Word spreads fast, and with the nation’s sentiment turned so squarely against him after the Landsmeet, his status as a pariah will likely be set in stone for some time to come. But what does an isolated Qunari, hulking and lonesome, have to do with Ferelden’s struggle against the Blight, or an apostate witch whose uncooperative nature is matched only by her thinly veiled contempt?

It is still hard for Loghain to think of himself as a Warden. The company he now must keep does not help.

To avoid them, he rises early after fitful sleep, plagued by visions of a massive dragon that hover at the edges of his nightmares. He’s been told that will diminish in time, but -- among the visions of Cailan and Anora and Alistair and Maric, always Maric -- the dragon, in its fearsome incarnation as archdemon, still looms largest.

He distracts himself with the mundane duties of beginning his day. Armor resting in a storage chest within his tent, he dresses himself and emerges, glad to see the party camp still and peaceful with supplies already set out for whoever is first to rise. The camp food is mediocre at best, typical Ferelden cooking supplied by the camp’s attendants, with a bit of dwarven and Dalish fare thrown in for good measure; he feeds the mabari first, a bright and loyal hound that trots happily at his heels, before resigning himself to eat.

Perched on a tree stump beside the dimly flickering fire, he carefully melts a piece of cheese over a crust of bread, impaled on the fine point of a cooking knife obtained from the dwarven vendor Feddic who keeps a wagon in camp. That man, and his peculiar son, are opportunists, just like everyone else who’s opted to join the Warden in her crusade against the darkspawn. A strange Warden, at that; older than he expected, with gray hair that falls to her shoulders to conceal sharp-tipped ears. Plucked by Duncan from the Denerim alienage after committing her first murder, the woman is diplomatic but cold, constantly offering kind reasons for pragmatic and heartless acts. He recalls her from Ostagar, and Loghain cannot yet bring himself to trust her.

He eyes the Warden’s tent, sees no stir of movement, and, satisfied, turns back to the fire, briefly scrutinizing the flames before noticing the mabari has sat on its hind legs to beg. Reluctantly, Loghain breaks the crust of bread in half, offering it to the hound, who happily snaps it up with a whine of delight. He supposes indulging the dog like this is terrible obedience training, but what harm will it do him to show some compassion, now? He ruffles the short fur between its pricked ears, murmuring to it in a low voice. “Now, we mustn’t waste supplies.”

It gives a short bark, panting happily, and lays its head on his knee, drooling a little. Loghain almost feels guilty for finishing off his breakfast without sharing, but to compensate, he pulls a dog biscuit from his pocket and hands it over, a purchase from Feddic that earned him a strange look or two from the Warden. He tosses it into the air, and the Mabari leaps to catch it nimbly, earning a nod of approval. “Well done.”

Even with the dog’s show of agility, and the resulting barking, no one rises to investigate the matter. Loghain can’t blame them; it’s inhumanly early in the dawn, just the time of day when he likes to be awake. He can conduct business without prying eyes, enjoy some private time to himself for reflection -- even forget his troubles, for as long as the attempt lasts. That, of course, is impossible, but it can be comforting to try.

The camp supply chest has a stash of items useful to all who are willing to partake. The Warden, a particularly fastidious elf, has included soap (scented and unscented, depending on one’s preference), an elfroot paste for dental care (a recipe from her own alienage; evidently, the elves will not let poverty take their pride nor hygiene), and other such amenities, all of which half the camp rejects as the relics of dandies and the self-obsessed. The Warden rightly points out cultural differences when such topics are brought up, and dispels the red-haired dwarf’s especially foul attitude by offering small bottles of liquor from her pocket stash of gifts.

Loghain notes, with a chuckle, that it’s not unlike his habit of keeping biscuits for the Mabari hound. Whatever it takes to secure an ally’s loyalty.

He reaches into the chest to retrieve the soap, and some sort of hair-care product, suspiciously Orlesian in odor but promising only Ferelden-made ingredients on the label. Miraculously, there are clean cloths, too, for drying oneself after a bath. He makes a note to thank the Warden and her supplier, and retreats to the camp’s outskirts with trudging strides, grateful at least for the ready access to a change of clothes. The Warden seems to have made it her personal mission to obtain every unique set of robes, armor, and wearable accessories within a hundred-mile radius of party camp. Loghain supposes this can only help the army, and is willing to excuse it as personal idiosyncrasy; would he not have done the same for his own men, given the time and resources? Of course he would have.

That is a thought to contemplate at a different time, the similarities and differences between himself and the stern petite elf who now leads their chaotic crew. Loghain looks back and scans the camp, almost furtively, to ensure no one has awoken to claim the privilege of a first bath. Then he peels off his shirt and trousers, folding them neatly and leaving them on a dry patch of the pond bank. The Mabari keeps guard some distance away, lying down with its head on its paws. The only sounds are the quiet ambiance of birdsong, the dog’s panting, and the rustle of wind through branches, sending a few stray leaves down to land gently in the water with a splash.

Loghain feels comfortable enough to fully undress, and lets himself settle into the pond. Evidently one or another of the mages has been coaxed into applying purifying spells to the water, making it suitable for bathing and drinking, thankfully. But nothing, it seems, can be done about the temperature. At least it’s... bracing.

Wincing slightly as the chill sinks in, he rests against the edge of the pond, scooping up a handful of water and letting it soak into his hair. The braids that frame his face help keep it manageable, but after days of fending off darkspawn and finding himself caked in the repulsive dark blood the creatures spew with each cut and slash, he feels the need to start fresh. He unties the end of one braid, then the other, running his fingers through the loose dark strands and saturating his hair with the clean water. It is a relief.

The dubiously Orlesian hair product, while still not ideal, will do for now. He washes and rinses it out quickly, briefly considers asking where the substance was bought, then realizes that it was probably intended for the bard -- Leliana, with her habit of launching into song during battles and probing Loghain well past his patience with nosy questions. Best not to cross paths with Leliana any more than necessary.

After the necessities are done, he simply rests back against the bank of the pond, scrutinizing his surroundings and thinking of the upcoming plan. A trip to Calenhad is in the party’s future, some errand that the Warden insists is necessary. That will be a disquietingly long journey, especially considering they’ve only just returned from a jaunt to some ruins to cleanse a cursed castle, or something along those lines. To Loghain it has all been a blur of chaos mixed with trivialities, a form of procrastination on facing the Blight, but the Warden -- Alma Tabris, or so she calls herself -- believes, quite firmly, that all business must be taken care of before the archdemon is fought. So Loghain has no choice but to follow.

And would he do otherwise, if given the chance? Though a born leader, he has always done best while second in command to another. It is an adjustment, he must admit, to turn from following Ferelden’s rightful king, the steadfast and joyful Maric, to a former Alienage elf with inscrutable motives and a certain brand of polite cruelty.

But, he will say, this is better than Cailan. How he chafed under the rule of the petulant boy-king.

As he closes his eyes to think, foreign fingers run gently through his wet hair, caressing down the back of his neck, and Loghain murmurs in approval for a moment before lashing out in alarm at the realization, twisting to inspect the intruder. _“How dare you!”_

“Oh, pardon me.” The lithe assassin has already scrambled out of reach. Tall (for an elf), dressed in some sort of rogue’s vestment that reveals altogether too much sleek tan skin, the Antivan stands with hands on hips, blond hair cascading down to his shoulders and tucked behind pointed ears, wearing a truly wicked smile. “I could not resist. Tell me, need I introduce myself yet again, or do you remember me this time?”

“I cannot imagine I would be enough of a fool to forget someone such as you.” Loghain notices, too late, that Zevran is taking seat atop the bundle of clothes he’s left at the pond bank, sitting cross-legged and flexible with hands folded in his lap. He scowls under dark brows, wet strands of black hair clinging to his face and neck. “Zevran. Did you want something from me, or are you here merely to annoy?”

Zevran waves an airy hand, offering a carefree smile. An inked curlicue traces down one side of his face, flattering the curve of his cheekbone, and a few strands of fine elven hair have been left free to frame his narrow face. He inspects Loghain, eyes roaming over him, and shrugs. “What am I to say? I want many things from many people.”

Loghain grumbles, not especially liking this particular type of hostage situation. Nevertheless, the best he can do is play along. “Now _there’s_ a surprise.”

“What, no complaint that I didn’t even answer your question? Why, I’m shocked.” Zevran sits forward, seemingly making a point of needling Loghain. Meanwhile, the mabari comes to investigate, spends a second circling Zevran to analyze him, then finds him suitable and takes a seat by him, panting happily and nudging his arm with its snout. Loghain glares at the dog; traitor. Zevran grins and continues. “But if you won’t insist, I’ll answer anyway. I’m just… curious, you might say. About this situation, and about you, _Loghain.”_ He pronounces the name like he’s savoring the taste in his mouth. “And what better time than now, when there is no one here to interrupt us?”

Loghain strongly suspects Zevran has other things in mind than mere questions. Just looking at him is enough to indicate that -- the suggestive quirk of the eyebrow, the smirk he wears with pride. But Loghain is not the type of man to seek such frivolity during wartime, and even entertaining the notion is abjectly ridiculous. Grumbling to himself, he runs a hand through his own hair, erasing the memory of Zevran’s touch. “Ask away.”

“So much to ask. Where should I even start?” The assassin makes himself comfortable, scooting forward a little to bring himself closer to Loghain. Somewhere, he seems to have picked up a set of ornate gloves and boots, Dalish and Antivan respectively. He catches Loghain inspecting these, and laughs a little, meeting his stern gaze. “Yes, a touch of luxury in the long road of adventure that has become our lives. You disapprove?”

“Not as much as I would like to say.” Loghain lifts himself out of the water a little, just enough to make conversation more easily. If Zevran is not going away -- and at this point, it would seemingly take an act of the Maker to disrupt the elf’s concentration -- he may as well make this less difficult for both of them. “All my own treasured items have been lost, save for a few. These, I brought along. Everything else was in my estate in Gwaren, and was taken in the looting. I shudder to think of the effort it would require to reclaim all that was lost.”

“Ah.” Zevran interjects carelessly. “I am sure the surviving alienage elves are saying the exact same right now.”

Loghain winces. “Must you?”

“What? I am merely observing. Just so you know, our beloved commander has a plan to launch an expedition to reclaim the sold elves after the Blight is ended. You will surely be joining her on the mission. Has she mentioned that?”

“Not at all.” He heaves a sigh. Realistically, that is the _least_ he deserves. “Thank you for informing me.”

“My pleasure. But these are plans for the far future, and who knows? Perhaps all three of us will be dead by then.” Zevran shrugs lightly with one shoulder, and grins with sharp white teeth, setting aside any worry about the path that awaits them. “So, tell me about what you were able to save.”

Loghain retreats a little. “It is of no consequence.”

“Is it, now? I want to get to know you. What a man cherishes can often say more about him than any words that come out of his mouth.”

“I suppose that’s… insightful.”

“Isn’t it? One learns these things, in the business.” Zevran does not need to specify which business. Loghain is already well acquainted with his career. “Go on.”

Loghain finds he has no choice. “I haven’t much, really. A map that Maric and I made long ago, on a whim, with a fanciful plan for expanding Ferelden. A collar that belonged to my first mabari, Adalla. A locket my wife gave to me with a miniature portrait of Anora as a child, for when I would go away to war.” He rests his chin in his hand, elbow propped up on the pond bank. “Sentimental nonsense, of course. All my belongings with material wealth have been long lost.”

“Ah, the general with the heart of gold!” Zevran beams. “I like it.”

“Don’t be absurd. Had I a heart of gold, we wouldn’t be in this predicament. Neither of us would, in fact, considering how you and the Warden met.”

Zevran is undeterred. He removes his gloves delicately, setting them aside, then shifts forward again, leaving Loghain’s clothes alone and moving to perch nearer to him. “Circumstances will drive even the best of men to desperation. Others do despicable things simply because they enjoy it, wouldn’t you agree? That, according to our fearless leader, is what separates you and Howe. I can’t quite imagine anyone is mourning his loss with too much grief, but I must say, I took some pleasure in looting his corpse. Noblemen are always so greedy. They clutch the tokens of their wealth close to them. All the better for the vultures.”

Loghain eyes him from as safe a distance as possible, barely feeling the chill of the water any longer. “If not for your advances towards me, I might feel threatened.”

“Really?” Zev reaches out, fingers tangling through Loghain’s damp hair, and is pleasantly surprised when Loghain just endures it with gritted teeth to show his exasperation at the elf’s persistence. A shadow of stubble is starting to show on his jaw, lending a marginally darker cast to his pale face, and he turns to glare at Zev in profile, with his heavy brow and aquiline nose and slight permanent pout. Zev continues, unfazed, with the faintest of smirks. “You don’t feel ill at ease?”

“Ill at ease, yes. Threatened, hardly.”

“I am _delighted_ to know this.” Zev leans down and tugs off his boots, letting his feet dangle in the cool water of the pond, and allows his hand to trail lazily over Loghain’s muscular shoulder. “It is fortunate for both of us that the camp has chosen to sleep late, yes?”

“To the contrary. You may find it fortunate, but I find it a great inconvenience.” With a huff of frustration, Loghain plucks Zev’s hand from his shoulder and moves away, keeping a safe distance from the sharply grinning elf. Despite the cleansing hexes, the pond water is filled with aquatic plants, which tangle unpleasantly around his limbs, cold and slimy under the surface. He bears it for as long as he can, then swims back towards Zev, who has not moved an inch, robes hiked up to his thighs and lounging comfortably at the bank, enjoying the cool water on his legs. The elf looks as pleased as can be, basking in the few rays of sunlight that have finally pierced through the thick cloud cover overhead. His hair is like spun strands of gold, fine and pure in the light, and he combs his fingers through it, aware that he is being watched by a grudgingly captivated human.

Loghain glances away, implores Andraste to restore his patience, then inspects Zevran as sternly as he can muster, cutting a rather unimposing figure half-submerged in the pond. “I have work to do this afternoon. Certainly you don’t intend to hold me hostage here.”

“Not at all, Loghain, but would you mind if I were to join you?” And before Loghain can veto the offer, Zevran tugs the robes over his head, fine-sewn Tevinter velvet and furs bundled up into a heap, that he throws aside to land neatly atop Loghain’s stacked belongings at the pond bank. Loghain huffs under his breath, indignant at this violation of his privacy, but amid his muttered protests Zevran slips into the pond, floating lightly and resting in the water all too near to him. Again without asking, he lathers himself up with the soap that Loghain has already used for himself, taking advantage of the translucency of the pond water to show off for a particular Warden whose eyes might wander.

Loghain studiously does not look. There are other, more wholesome things to capture his attention -- the sunlight filtering through the trees overhead, a particularly colorful patch of flowers on the pond bank, the mabari snoring happily while sitting atop the cloth chestpiece of his armor. Now and then, though, his willpower does lapse and his gaze slips back, just enough to notice that Zevran has been honest about his tales of ink patterns that accentuate the body’s lines and curves. Too late, Loghain glances away again, but not before the elf has made eye contact, eyebrows arching up and a grin splitting across his thin face.

Zevran is merciless. “You can’t resist, eh? You would not be the first.”

“Pardon me for not managing to ignore you completely.” Loghain’s suffering in silence has gone on altogether too long. He inspects Zev suspiciously, concealing any hint of approval for the sake of preserving the wary peace. “I’m not accustomed to bathing with another, much less a man such as yourself.”

“‘A man such as myself’?” Zev quotes him, his tone gently mocking. “So you are unused to the company of assassins? Or is it just Antivans? Loghain, you should do some more traveling. A former teyrn such as yourself cannot afford to be ill-educated in the matters of other lands.” Zevran reaches out underwater and runs a soap-slick hand down Loghain’s side, to which the man pauses, then flinches away, as if in an afterthought. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I know just as much about Antivans as I need to.” He’s already wilting under Zevran’s keen stare, those golden eyes that rake over him whenever Loghain’s attention lapses for half a second. This was not part of his plans for the morning. Nor, in fact, for any part of his career as a Warden. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing long damp strands out of his face, and is deeply weary, for a sudden moment. “This firsthand experience is not helping either of us.”

“You think so?” Zevran dismisses this notion with a snort. He reaches out for Loghain again, hands closing around his waist, feels the tensing of his solid frame and watches the slight clench of his jaw. Nevertheless, the man doesn’t pull away, nor retreat into the morass of water-plants clogging the pond, like before. “You believe you know so much about Antivans?” Zev’s voice drops to a low breath, a sultry accented whisper in Loghain’s ear. “Have you ever _had_ one?”

“They tell stories about situations like this to Ferelden children, you know. They say there are nymphs that live in ponds and feed on passing travelers. They take the form of some poor soul’s intended betrothed, and drag him beneath the surface, never to be seen again.” Loghain can’t even muster the initiative for a real stern reprimand. Nevertheless, there is a weak attempt, delivered with a slight scowl. “I am reminded of those fairytales right now.”

Zev is undeterred, delighted, and wears the sort of diabolical grin that all his victims probably saw in their last moments on earth. “Would that make _me_ your intended betrothed, then? After all, if these water-spirits imitate--”

“Oh, shut your mouth.” Loghain pushes him away, but gently enough to indicate no harm. No one has stirred yet; the camp is quiet. Maybe, for now, there’s no harm in continuing this ridiculous charade. He looks back at Zevran, thoughtfully. “On a more serious note, I wouldn’t mind learning more of Antivan culture from you, when we are both clothed.”

“Must we be clothed? The best learning happens in the nude.” Zev flashes an irresistible smirk, then gives a slight little shrug with one shoulder. This is progress. “Very well. I hear the customs are somewhat more conservative in Ferelden. I can adapt to that.”

“I’m glad we can agree on _something._ ” And Loghain has barely had one moment of peace before Zev is sidling up to him again, sliding smoothly through the water to make contact with a gentle shoulder nudge. “Or not. What now?”

“Nothing, Lord Loghain.” Zev intentionally misuses the man’s former title, relishing the sound of the alliteration, but his tone is far from mean-spirited. He seems to truly enjoy saying it, and all that it means. “Would you be so kind as to undo my braids? I fear I cannot quite reach.”

“Ridiculous. How have you secured them in the first place?” But Loghain obliges nonetheless, ignoring how closely Zev settles against him with narrow shoulderblades pressed to his broad chest. His touch is less nimble than Zev’s, but it serves to finish the job, undoing the thin braids until the elf’s hair falls free down to his back. “There.”

All as planned. Zev gives a soft sigh of delight, leaning back and daring to rest his head on Loghain’s shoulder. “Thank you very much.”

“Of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Loghain separates himself from the elf, who has become alarmingly close once more, with a light shove. This is all too much for one morning. Maybe, if they were not facing a darkspawn battle the following afternoon, things would be different, but these circumstances have swiftly passed from unlikely to unimaginable.

Zev takes no note of Loghain’s internal turmoil. He rights himself in the water again, balancing in the shallow pool, and flicks a handful of water at Loghain, a small and ineffective form of retaliation matched by a wide grin. “You are excused.”

Loghain grumbles under his breath, moving nearer to the pond bank, as if to extricate himself from the pond and from the clutches of his very own Antivan water-nymph. “I didn’t really ask to be.”

“Well, you implied it. Not, I am sure, that you would need it.” Zev’s gaze does not falter, not even as Loghain lifts himself out of the water slightly, hinting at an exit from the pond. Predicatably, Loghain hesitates, feeling prying eyes on him, and Zev humors him with a brief glance away. “Go on, then. I’m not looking.”

Loghain doesn’t humor him with a response, just heaves himself out of the water, dripping wet and displeased. He gathers up his towel as soon as he’s on dry land and uses it to wipe off the excess water still clinging to his body, rushing through the process in the hopes of reclaiming his armor sooner. Zev watches the show eagerly, elbows resting on the pond bank and his chin propped up in his hands, and earns a firm glare for this. No matter; they carry on in silence, Loghain reluctantly getting dressed in full view of the nosy elf, Zevran enjoying himself tremendously at the sight.

By the time Loghain has managed to clothe himself, Zev finally clambers out of the pond, shakes the water droplets off with a shudder, and lays himself flat on the bank, lush grass soft under his slender nude body. He accepts the wadded towel tossed underhand at him, and spreads it across his midsection, a slight concession to others’ outdated ideas about modesty. “I think it shall be an absolutely _delightful_ day.”

Loghain has fetched another towel already, and is wringing out his damp hair, sitting on a dry patch of ground not far from Zevran. The dog stands guard over both, having awakened from his mid-morning nap, ever vigilant to his new master. When Zevran speaks, the mabari answers with a happy bark, interrupted by Loghain. “Really? Why do you say so?” He knows the answer, of course. Asking is a polite concession, but this is how these things go.

Zevran sits up a little, just enough to catch Loghain in the crosshairs of an enigmatic smile. “Getting to know new people is always a pleasure, especially considering our prior connection.”

Loghain grumbles, as usual. “Yes, I suppose it isn’t every day a deposed king is seduced by the failed assassin he hired.”

“You think so?” Zev lazily reaches out for him. “In Antiva, it’s astonishingly common.”

“I am sure. However, we are in Ferelden, not Antiva.”

Zev stifles a laugh. “I see those maps have been helpful.”

“Don’t even say a _word.”_ He fits the chestpiece snugly to his body, lacing a strap across the front and settling the fur-lined shoulder pieces firmly into place. It’s been years since he wore this armor, the original symbol of his triumph at River Dane; the last he saw it, it was resting on an armor stand in his study at Gwaren. Until, of course, it turned up at a Denerim flea market -- but that is another story, and now, thanks to the Warden’s dubious generosity, he has it again, this time for good. “Do you plan to get dressed, or will you be lounging about in the nude for the remainder of the day while the helpful members of our party fight darkspawn?”

“Is that a suggestion or a request?” Zevran runs his fingers through the thick white fur at the fringe of the nearest shoulderpiece, letting his hand trail lazily down Loghain’s arm to catch his attention. It works, earning him a stern glance that contains the slightest hint of amusement, and he continues on a more earnest note. “And would you like me to braid your hair when you are finished?”

“It is neither.” But Loghain cannot resist the latter offer, justifying it to himself as a matter of time and convenience. “If you insist. However, it’s hardly a difficult task, you know. I have done it myself for years.” He has to remind Zev of these things, lest he begin to feel too privileged. Loghain can manage. He _has_ managed.

Zev takes note of this; denial is powerful. “Certainly, but it is my opinion that many things benefit from a partner’s help.” He rises to his feet, knotting the towel loosely around his waist, and takes a seat again beside Loghain, nimble fingers darting through the long strands of dark hair and weaving them into a tidy braid that frames one side of his face. Loghain sits perfectly still, aware of the scrutiny he is under, and closes his eyes, lessening the pressure of the situation ever so slightly.

When Zev has finished with one side, he gently turns Loghain’s head to reach the other, a hand pressed against his cheek. This makes him blink in surprise and inspect Zev with mild caution, but the elf is firmly focused on the task, completing the second braid with ease. Lingering a moment too long, he traces a hand down the side of Loghain’s face again, thumb resting in the slight hollow beneath his cheekbone. “You know, you do not look like a typical Fereldan.”

“So I’ve been told.” Loghain seems to take this more as a criticism than a compliment, looking a touch downcast, brow furrowed deeply. He looks back at Zevran, fair grey eyes connecting with distinctly golden ones. “I haven’t an answer for why. My family originated as poor farmers. It was pure fate that I encountered Maric, and that my life’s path led me to a position of any power at all.”

“Yes, the war against the Orlesians. A grisly business, I am sure.” Zev shivers delicately, as though he has not been involved in matters of state and politics himself since his first day as an active-duty Crow. “You were instrumental in the victory, were you not? To think, you are a war hero so many times over. It is not hard to tell from looking at you. You carry yourself with a certain grace reserved for men who have earned their own greatness.”

“Thank you. I like to believe that I have not lost everything of my former glory, though I surely deserve to.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Zevran strokes his hair gently, an act that Loghain seems, on some level, to be enjoying. “Though I would be lying if I said I was not grateful that circumstances have brought you here, among us. Better than the alternative, don’t you think, considering all that transpired after Ostagar?” A soft laugh. “In Antiva, you would have been dead within the day. It is a nation that tolerates no mistakes.”

“Perhaps Fereldans’ capacity for mercy separates us from other lands, as well.” A brief swell of nationalistic pride from Loghain, mirroring the oft-quoted line that the Warden uses to justify so many of her recruitment decisions. ‘Mercy separates us from the darkspawn,’ and so forth. He has heard it a hundred times when she paces back and forth, collecting her thoughts before a foray into Denerim with the fallen teyrn in her group. The remark is dangerous in its capacity for misuse, but unmistakably true.

In response Zevran just laughs. “Perhaps. Or maybe it was just the mercy of a solitary elf.”

“Maybe so.” Loghain concedes the point willingly, and reaches out for a lock of Zevran’s hair without being asked, reciprocating the braiding. He fumbles a bit in the process, unused to the fine sleekness of elven hair and to the unexpected intimacy of the act. It has been years since he braided another’s hair, and decades since he learned how for the sake of young Anora. Now there is Zevran, and everything is entirely different.

Zev sits still, hands in his lap, beaming at him with his head inclined slightly. He breathes in and out slowly, restraining all the wicked impulses that come to mind with Loghain so close. “This is an unexpected delight.”

“Don’t test your luck. I am merely returning a favor.” He finishes the first braid clumsily, but his movements are quicker and smoother as he completes the second one, twisting the fine strands together and gathering them at the back of Zev’s head. Loghain bluffs his way through attempting a knot, winding a portion of the braids together and merging them -- over, under, in a steady pattern that culminates with a fine cord wound around the end to secure it tight.

Zev shakes his head a little, letting the rest of his hair fall free around his shoulders, and turns back towards Loghain, relishing the attention and the soft smile that has risen to Loghain’s face without him noticing. It disappears at once, but not before Zev can match it with a smile of his own, which in turn twists into a wry smirk. “Then thank you, Loghain, for the favor.”

Wordlessly, Loghain hands him the piled-up bundle of Tevinter clothing, some skimpy robe sewn with a durable blade-blocking mesh woven into its revealing chestpiece. It’s finely constructed, an acquisition from a novelty shop in Denerim, and Zev has picked up the habit of wearing it on expeditions and jaunts. He accepts it from Loghain, tugging it down over his head and taking his time to expose bare tan skin and toned muscles, until the robes finally fall into place and grant him some small measure of modesty. Zev pulls the boots and gloves back on next, and rises easily, flexible as ever. To Loghain he extends a hand, helping the hero of Ferelden to his feet, and Loghain grunts a bit with the effort, prompting a raised eyebrow from Zev. “You should swim more. It helps stretch sore muscles.”

“No, thank you.” Loghain rolls his shoulders, stretching a bit and letting the armor settle back into place. He catches Zev’s eye for a second. “I’d rather not. This pond is hardly ideal for bathing, let alone a swim. Not here.”

“Oh? Well, I know of plenty of… _other_ activities that will help your flexibility.”

_“Zevran--”_ But there’s a stir of activity from one of the other tents, interrupting the concentration of both, and Loghain grudgingly surrenders the moment. He gathers his belongings and starts back towards the center of the camp, the elf trailing along beside him like a slippery shadow. He deposits the soaps back in the shared camp storage box, dutifully as ever, and catches the ghost of a smile on Zevran’s face when he scowls at the fancy Orlesian script on the bottles.

“Still holding a grudge?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“I understand your dislike of Orlesians, but really, Loghain, I can’t imagine their luxury soaps ever did you any harm.”

“You would be surprised.” Loghain shuts the lid on the chest and moves back to sit beside the fire, resting on a fallen log that has just enough room for two. He prods the fire with a dry broken stick, letting the flames leap and arch up the twig until he drops it and watches it crumple into ash. Zev watches the sight with him silently, leaning ever so slightly against Loghain’s shoulder. To his surprise, the man does not complain.

The elf is the first to break the silence. “You know, you will need to tell me some of your stories sometime.”

“Nonsense. Leliana is a far better storyteller than myself. You may even convince her to share some of her sung poems, if you are persuasive. All _I_ have to offer is stories of hard-fought wars and the gruesome business of ruling.”

Zevran rests against him, head on his shoulder, focused on nothing at all. “Maybe that’s what I want to hear.”

“From me, of all people? What insight have I to offer that you have not already learned?”

An arm wraps, ever so smoothly, around Loghain’s waist, making contact through the layers of metal and leather and armored furs. “I’m sure there must be _something.”_

Loghain resists this for a fraction of a moment, with his usual thoughts of propriety and duty and acceptable conduct, but leans into the touch soon enough, barely noticeable but just enough to satisfy Zev. The stirring in the tents must have been a false alarm; everything is silent now, just the crackling of the fire and the brisk wind whipping up the treetops. “Hmm. You have me convinced. Perhaps there is something yet left untold.”

“Then share it with me now.” A hand on the back of Loghain’s neck, playing with his dark hair, fingers tangling in it. Zev’s tone is coaxing, a gentle plea voiced in a suave accent. “We have all the time in the world.”

Loghain glances at him, infinitely stubborn as ever, but wearing a tired, soft smile. He is beginning to like this game -- reluctantly but gradually persuaded, step by step. “Perhaps. But not, I would think, with the darkspawn beckoning at our doorstep.”

One of Zev’s hands wanders to his knee, squeezing gently. “Even the Blight will wait, for the sake of a good story.”

Loghain pauses for a moment, torn. At last he returns the touch, a slightly awkward brush against Zev’s shoulder that roams down to his side and then, hesitantly, his waist.

“Then who am I to refuse?”

He does enjoy this, the act of relating his memories to a willing audience, and Zev is all too willing, for too many things. They face each other while the story is told, Zev straddling the log and sporting a sharp grin that never quite disappears, Loghain solemnly relating tales of his life as teyrn that mix military bravery with placid domesticity and political intrigue.

The rest of the camp stays quiet, and time stretches lazily onward, filled with the vividness of a story painted with words.

And somehow, one way or another, Loghain finds his hands clasped between nimble elven fingers, held tight like a lifeline.


End file.
